The Most Obscure of Feelings
by Chaimera
Summary: It was something they couldn't quite name, like a melody in your mind that you can't quite grasp as it dances just out of reach. This feeling was beyond what our simple language could encapsulate. A series of one shots.
1. ameneurosis

**Disclaimer: **_Not mine. Don't sue, please._

__**A/N: **I've been lurking around the Sherlock fandom since the start, generally being intimidated by the standard of the writing around here, but I thought I'd give it a go.  
>All the promptsdefinitions and chapter titles are taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows  
>a wonderful and mesmerizing collection of the uncategorized minutia of life, that couldn't help but inspire. Go and have a look.<br>Always remember to feed your author.

**ameneurosis**

n._the half-forlorn, half-escapist ache of a train whistle calling in the distance at night._

Often, he will wake in the night. The nightmares do not make him inclined to return to sleep and more often that not, he does not try. In the darkness of his empty room, he listens to the faint sounds of London.

Cars roar by his window and trains rattle in the distance. In the darkness, in the warm haze of summer, he can almost imagine he's back in Afghanistan.

But then, his shoulder twinges and a phantom pain pulses in his hip and the sounds in the distance, in the darkness of the city could never be anything but London.

John Watson sighs, turns and tries in vain to get some rest.


	2. gnashe

**Disclaimer: **_I'm only playing with them._

**A/N: All the prompts/definitions and chapter titles are taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows  
>a wonderful and mesmerizing collection of the uncategorized minutia of life, that couldn't help but inspire. Go and have a look.<br>Don't forget to feed your author. **

**gnasche**

**_n._ the intense desire to bite deeply into the forearm of someone you love.**

The first time it happened, it took John a few moments to register that it had. He had been reaching past Sherlock, who had been absorbed in an experiment of some kind. He felt the light graze of teeth along his forearm for only a moment. When he turned his attention to the consulting detective who was once again peering into a microscope, looking perfectly innocent. Well, as innocent as Sherlock Holmes could ever look, which is to say, not at all.

John frowned at the cold cup of tea in his hand and glanced at the other man again. "Sherlock, did you just..."

Sherlock glanced at the smaller man, barely paying attention. "What is it now John?"

"Did you... I mean, what... Did you try to ...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the microscope. "I do wish you wouldn't blather on so."

John stared at him for a moment more and then shrugged, putting the whole incident down to the special brand of paranoia that came from living with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>The second time it happened, they were on the tube.<p>

They had been unable to get a cab one miserable evening and John had flat out refused to walk, shortly informing Sherlock that he could trudge through the rain himself if he liked. He strode towards the nearest tube station, soaked to the bone, the ghosts of his past making themselves visible in the slight limp and the hunch of his shoulder. As he jostled for position on the packed platform, he was surprised when Sherlock's lean form seemed to materialize beside him. He didn't have to look at him to see the look of distain on his face, but John couldn't help a small smile as they waited.

They were packed in tight as the tube sped along and John couldn't wait to be back at Baker Street with a cup of tea and some crap telly. He busied himself with these simple fantasies until he felt a sharp but gentle pressure on his forearm as he gripped the handle above his head. His head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock, but the other man was busy with an intent study of a man standing across from them. Sherlock's eyes were darting from place to place and John could detect the faint movement of his lips as he quickly deduced everything there was to know about the normal looking bloke. Several minutes later, just as the man was starting to look distinctly uncomfortable at the intense scrutiny they reached their stop.

When they emerged from from the underground the rain had stopped. As they made their way home John glanced at his partner.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm, yes? What?"

"On the tube, did you bite me?"

"Don't be absurd John."

Someone who didn't know Sherlock so well, might not have noticed the minute pause before he spoke. John wasn't one of those people.

* * *

><p>The third time it happened, they were at a crime scene.<p>

John was cranky after being dragged out of bed at 3am, he was cold, there was no tea so he had punched Anderson. He hadn't punched him very hard and he had deserved it. John had been in no mood to listen to Anderson's long list of reasons as to why Sherlock should be removed from society. Lestrade had let him off with a gruff warning and a small smile.

While everyone had been distracted with checking on the technician he felt a tug on his arm, followed by a sharp pain. He let out an undignified yelp.

"Sherlock, what the..."

Before he could finish, Sherlock had launched into a convoluted but brilliant explanation of why exactly a prima ballerina had ended up in an abandoned docklands warehouse. It was nearly two days later, after several manic chases and one knife fight before he had time to remember it had happened in the first place.

* * *

><p>It was sometime after midnight on a bitterly cold winters night and John was warm and content, drifting rapidly towards sleep with the worlds only consulting detective curled beside him.<p>

Unfortunately he was jerked back into wakefulness as Sherlock sank his teeth into his arm.

"Ouch. Sherlock! Why do you keep doing that?"

Sherlock mumbled something indistinct into the pillow, attempting to roll over. John used the arm he had wrapped around his shoulders to keep him facing in his direction.

"Sherlock!"

"I don't have enough data to come to a satisfying conclusion."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, please, attempt to dumb it down for me, so I can understand the theory."

"For some reason I have yet to identify, I, on occasion, experience what can only be described as a... surge of affection for you. This emotion seems to accompanied by the urge to bite your arm. I see no obvious reason to resist, considering the insistent nature of the feeling."

"So, let me get this straight," John shifted so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "Are you saying that you like me so much, you feel the need to take a bite out of me."

"That's a rather simplified explanation but, I believe so. It is, at times, quite... overwhelming."

John sighed and settled back down in the bed, pulling the taller man into his side.

"Right. You too."


	3. hanker sore

**Disclaimer: **_If I owned any of this, do you think I'd be living where I am?_

**A/N: All the prompts/definitions and chapter titles are taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows  
>a wonderful and mesmerizing collection of the uncategorized minutia of life, that couldn't help but inspire. Go and have a look.<br>Don't forget to feed your author.**

**hanker sore**

**_adj._ finding a person so attractive it actually kinda pisses you off.**

Sergeant Sally Donovan really, really hated Sherlock Holmes.

He was arrogant. He was heartless. He seemed to take some perverse pleasure in picking apart her personal life within hearing distance of the entirety of Scotland Yard.

She knew, with a conviction of belief few people could claim, that one day she would be looking at a body put there by Sherlock Holmes. She knew he was a psychopath, a serial killer in the making.

But there was something that made Sally Donovan hate Sherlock Holmes more than any of these other facts put together.

He was bloody gorgeous and she couldn't help but be attracted to him. He would stride onto a crime scene, all cheek bones, curly hair and tight shirts. Every time she looked at him she was over come with the urge to try and climb him like a tree and simultaneously kick him in the shins.

But the thing she hated most of all about the "consulting detective"?

He bloody well knew it!

"Freak."

Grey eyes raked over her body, taking in what she knew was probably minute evidence of her ill advised night with the new Inspector in CID.

"Sergeant. Glad to see you've been... diversifying."

It was the knowing smirk as he swept by her that made her want to break his face. But Sally had to admit, she loved watching him walk away.


	4. la cuna

**Disclaimer: **_I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a 19th century male novelist._

**A/N: **_All the prompts/definitions and chapter titles are taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows_  
><em>a wonderful and mesmerizing collection of the uncategorized minutia of life, that couldn't help but inspire. Go and have a look.<em>  
><em>Don't forget to feed your author.<em>

**la cuna**

**_n._ a twinge of sadness that there's no frontier left, that as the last explorer trudged with his armies toward a blank spot on the map, he didn't suddenly remember his daughter's upcoming piano recital and turn for home, leaving a new continent unexplored so we could set its mists and mountains aside as a strategic reserve of mystery, if only to answer more of our children's questions with "Nobody knows! Out there, anything is possible."**

He was so Bored!

To Sherlock Holmes, life had become utterly dull. He glanced at his phone and rolled his eyes. Two texts from Lestrade, one asking him about a case he'd solved weeks ago, the other asking him to stop sending mass texts to Scotland Yard press conferences.

Three missed calls from Mycroft. Sherlock intended to ignore all of them, thank you very much.

One text from his ex-landlord informing him that a bill for all damages would be sent to his brother. That was going to cause him no end of bother.

All in all, his life was entirely uneventful.

To Sherlock, it seemed as if he had met every interesting person, solved every good mystery. He felt that old longing tugging at the back of his mind, but he had been clean for over two years now, and was determined not to allow the petty urges of his body cloud his intellect once more. True, the drugs released him from the mind-numbing mundanity of life, but they did rather impair his cognitive faculties, no matter what he had believed when he was high.

In attempt to relieve his boredom, Sherlock had blagged his way into St. Barts once more, taking advantage of the Molly's infatuation with him to get a hold of a body. Granted, beating the corpse with a riding crop was relevant to the case he was working on, but it wasn't as if he didn't already know this information.

He had set himself up in an empty lab when Mike and someone else wandered in. He glanced at them briefly. Dull!

"Mike can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

He explained to Mike, once again, that he preferred to text. He did so hate repetition.

"Uh, here. Use mine."

Sherlock took a longer look at the man standing at the end of the work bench.

... Perhaps, he wasn't so dull after all. Sherlock felt that trill of excitement at a puzzle not fully solved.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"


End file.
